First Impressions
by S. Faith
Summary: There are two sides to every story, and to every disastrous meeting. The Turkey Curry Buffet from Mark's POV. Movie universe.


**First Impressions**

By S. Faith, © 2008

Words: 3,207

Rating: T / PG-13

Summary: There are two sides to every story, and to every disastrous meeting.

Disclaimer: Isn't mine. Nope.

Notes: I'm not trying to procrastinate editing the big story. Honestly.

The title comes from the saying "You never get a second chance to make a first impression." However, I'm told that this was the original title of Austen's "Pride & Prejudice," which I did not know. FTW!

* * *

"Mother. Enough already."

Mark Darcy raised his eyes to meet his mother's in the rear view mirror. A quiet throat-clearing from his left side, from his father, reminded him how disrespectful his words had sounded, so he added, "Please."

They were on the road from his parents' home, driving through the snow to an annual New Year's party hosted by long-time friends of theirs. From the moment he'd gone back to his childhood home, his mother had been speaking nearly non-stop about the daughter of said friends. It became evident very quickly that she would not rest until she saw them married with five children.

Going to a turkey curry buffet and wearing an appalling holiday-themed jumper was about as far as he was willing to go to please his mother.

"I only ask that you just try talking to her, that's all," she said, a hint of pleading in her voice. "She's a lovely girl: blonde hair, blue eyes, very well liked. Works in the publishing business."

_Why do you have to try to set her up with me, then?_ he thought.

"You work so hard, have all that money and no one to share it with… I just hate to see you so lonely, Mark—"

"Fine," he interrupted before she could really build up steam, turning the corner and into the drive to park.

They appeared to be among the first to arrive, and from the way Mrs Jones eyed him it seemed that she was in on the matchmaking.

"Mark!" she gushed. "So lovely to see you! Here, give me your coat; we'll get you a drink, get you settled…."

"Well, look who it is!" came another shrill voice: Una Alconbury, sidling up to him. "Mark! So _lovely_ to see you! And love the jumper!" She looked around a little too pointedly, which was then explained by her next question: "Come on your own, have you? We'll just have to take care of that, won't we?" He watched her wink none too subtly to Pam Jones, who in turn grinned almost maniacally to Una.

It was going to be a very long day.

He accepted the glass of wine Pam pressed into his hand, but resisted the urge to glug it down in one swallow. It would not do to get completely pissed. That might mean his defenses could drop, and he had a feeling he couldn't let that happen.

………

After polite greetings with some of the family friends he hadn't seen in some time—including Colin Jones and Geoffrey Alconbury, whose legal question died in his throat at Mark's assuredly withering look—Mark had found his parents again and was happy for the refuge their conversation provided. Quite abruptly though, right in the middle of conversation, he watched his mother pull his father away. Then he heard Pam Jones call his name.

_Christ alive_, he thought as he turned around. _It must be her._

He came face to face with who he presumed was the object of so much attention by the gaggle of hens that day. She was pretty, he granted her, but was wearing the most atrocious-looking outfit on he'd ever seen a grown woman wearing: a red blouse with a ridiculous collar and cuffs, and a floral vest and skirt that appeared to be made of furniture brocade. She looked fairly uncomfortable, which surprised him a little. He would have thought she would be as anxious as her mother for this set-up; the last time he had met a daughter of his parents' friends, Julie Enderby had claimed his elbow five minutes after their introduction and practically didn't let go the entire time.

Pam asked brightly, "You remember Bridget? She used to run 'round your lawn with no clothes on, remember?"

In a flash he recalled back to when he was much younger, to a blonde sprite running around like a terror on wheels, attempting to drain empty wine bottles of their last drops, three cigarettes in her mouth in an imitation of smoking, and stuffing her face with chocolate cake until she made herself sick.

"No," he lied, seeing the distinct signs of mortification wash over Bridget's face. "Not as such."

Within moments Una came to whisk Pam away with a blatant falsehood, leaving him alone with Bridget. _Let's just get this over with_, he thought.

"So," she said.

"So," he replied.

"You staying at your parents' for New Year?" she asked; the way she was holding her cigarette and drink reminded him of his previous reminiscences.

"Yes," he said curtly; how he hated inane small talk. "You?"

"Oh no no no _no_, I was in London at a party last night so I'm afraid I'm a bit hung over," she said. "Wish I could be lying with my head in the toilet like all normal people." She chuckled. 'Normal people?' Inwardly, he bristled. Was she implying he was some kind of freakish nerd to spend New Year's Eve with his parents? She continued. "New Year's resolution—drink less. Oh, and quit smoking. Mmm." She seemed to notice just then that she had a drink and a cigarette in her hand, and added, "Oh. Ha. And keep New Year's resolutions. Oh. And, uh… stop talking total nonsense to strangers." She reached and poked him on the chest as if to underscore it was he who was the stranger. He could only stare in disbelief at the spot she'd touched, at her lack of respect, at her lack of boundaries. He wondered from the way she was babbling on if she was more than just hung over from last night. "In fact," she concluded, "stop talking, full stop."

Oh, he'd heard quite enough.

"Yes, well," Mark responded coolly, "perhaps it's time to eat."

He then walked away, though his thoughts were, quite frankly, in a whirlwind over the whole episode. When had he last been introduced to an unmarried woman who didn't look at his wealth and status with eager, predatory eyes? She'd been tolerating his presence, at best.

In the dining room he met his mother, who looked eager to hear how things had gone. He merely shook his head.

"But Mark," she began. "You're in London, she's in London…. Apparently she lives just 'round the corner from you."

His patience finally came to an end. "Mother, I do not need a blind date, particularly not with some… _verbally incontinent spinster_ who smokes like a chimney, drinks like a fish and dresses like her mother."

He couldn't have been more clear, which was unfortunate; as his mother's attention turned to something behind them, he turned too, and when he saw Bridget at the table ladling food onto a plate, he realised she had heard what he'd said. "Yummy," she said with false brightness as mother and son both looked at her; "Turkey curry. My favourite."

Bridget came forward with her plate of food. As she passed between his mother and him, she flashed a look up at him; for a split-second he could see the hurt in her eyes before she put on a brave face then left the room. He felt terrible; he might not have wanted to date her, but he never meant to hurt her feelings.

"Mark," his mother said quietly; when he looked back to her, he saw she was fixing him with the most disapproving look he'd ever seen. "I thought you had better manners than that."

"I thought I did too," he said. "I'm sorry."

"It's not me you need to apologise to," she said. She then reached forward and placed a hand on his arm.

He nodded.

Mark gathered up a plate of food for himself and went to find a safe, out-of-the-way place to perch to eat it. He saw Bridget sitting on a sofa beside her father. With her plate on her knees, steadied by the fingers of her left hand, she began to tuck into her plate of curry. Her father turned and said something to her; her response was to roll her eyes, spear another piece of turkey from her plate, then proceed to reply in quite an animated fashion, poking her fork into the air for effect.

He could not hear their hushed tone over the din of the ambient chatter, but he instinctively knew they were talking about her meeting Mark just a few minutes ago.

Her father smiled, and Mark distinctly saw his mouth form the words, "Poor dear." As she brought the fork to her mouth to eat the turkey at last, he slipped an arm around her shoulders and leaned in to peck her cheek. This caused the turkey to pop off of her fork, land on her vest before slipping back onto the plate.

He saw her pull her lower lip between her teeth, an airless vulgarity he was sure he recognised. Her father was all apologies and offered to get her a towel, but she sighed, then laughed, which caught Mark off guard. Mark had accidentally spilled milk once on his female law partner's trousers and she'd nearly gouged his eyes out for it; here was Bridget with yellow curry on her outfit and laughing about it. He realised too that her natural, genuine laugh made her look even more attractive.

Her voice carried a little more easily when she spoke. "It's all right, really," she said with a smile. "Just gives me an excuse to take the bloody thing off. Hold my plate. I'll be right back."

She rose and left the room, heading up the stairs. Within minutes she was back down again. She was still wearing the skirt and the red blouse, but in shedding the vest and undoing the top button of the blouse, she looked entirely different. Almost kind of… sexy. The shirt was actually fairly well tailored and served to accentuate her figure; specifically, her full, rounded bosoms, to which his eyes were unavoidably drawn. Before he could stop himself, he thought how nice she might look now if she were on his lawn with no clothes on. He pushed the thought away and vowed to have no more wine, directing his gaze upwards.

Her cheeks were pink from scaling then descending the stairs quickly to get back to lunch, her hair, slightly tousled, and as she passed Mark by she met his eyes momentarily then looked away as if afraid of more ridicule.

Ashamed, he lowered his eyes as she headed back to her seat, only to find himself looking directly at her bottom; the thick fabric of that skirt amply emphasised the curviness of her backside, especially as she walked. Once more he forced his attention away, this time back to his cooling plate of mediocre curried turkey.

He had gotten very used to seeing painfully thin women in his social circle; seeing one that wasn't skin and bones was quite refreshing, even as at the same time it was starting to have an unfortunate involuntary side effect. As he was willing his thoughts to the more mundane, Mark noticed Mr Jones rising from the couch, leaving Bridget with a vacant seat beside her. He wanted to go and apologise but knew could not go and do it in his current state. Out of the corner of his eye saw that his father was approaching him.

Confidentially he said to his son, "Quite a lovely girl, that Bridget, hm?"

Mark made a non-committal sound, thankful he had just put a forkful of food in his mouth.

Malcolm continued, elbowing his son in jest, "Always go for a girl with a figure, haven't I always said so? Something to hold on to, hm?"

Mark swallowed, then cleared his throat. His father would have to bring the subject back to the one thing he was trying diligently not to think of. "Yes, you have said as much in the past, Father."

"Had no idea _she_ was the one your mother was trying so hard to set you on. Cute as a button. Well," he said, holding up his mostly empty tumbler, "I need a top-off, so I'll leave you to finish your lunch."

Mark was more determined than ever to apologise after he was finished eating, after he'd gotten his thoughts under more stringent control.

………

He had just returned his dirty plate to the kitchen and was heading for where she'd been when he realised she was no longer there, that Geoffrey was now occupying the sofa she had been sitting on, and he put two and two together. He looked about himself for where she might have gone off to, and caught the briefest flash of red just outside the window by the door.

Outside in the snow? It was one way, he supposed, he could catch her alone.

He went closer to the window to size up the situation, to think about his exact words to her, and saw her standing there on the steps, holding herself, obviously shivering in the cold and looking utterly miserable. _And why not?_ he thought. She was wearing an outfit she obviously hated, got summarily dismissed then rudely insulted by a man wearing an equally horrible jumper, dropped curry on herself and then was leeringly approached by pervy old 'Uncle' Geoffrey, all within an hour of arriving.

To his utter surprise, a snowball came flying towards her from the direction of the backyard, hit her in the arm and exploded into a million bits. He could hear the children's cackling laughter through the window. He would have expected her to give them a dirty look or maybe turn and come back into the house, looking and probably feeling even further defeated. He never expected her brows to furrow with intent, for her to jaunt forward, scoop up a handful of snow and launch one back towards them. And then another. He could see the wide grin on her face as she rapid-fire lobbed even more before standing triumphantly with her hands on her hips, nodding in satisfaction in an apparent job well done.

She then turned and came so quickly back into the house Mark had no time to move, nearly running into him as she came inside. He found he could not speak, and wondered about the look on his own face as her smile vanished; she turned her eyes down and politely apologised as she passed him by.

He was stunned, but probably not in the way she thought. He had never seen a grown woman willingly participate in a snowball fight, and rather than be appalled, he was fascinated. The flush in her cheek, the sparkle in her eye, the overall wildness of the spontaneity of her actions, made her more attractive than any designer polish could have done.

He wanted more than ever to get that apology out of the way and start again on the right foot with her. He followed her but found that when she noticed he was near to her, she moved away to be somewhere else. It amazed him how easily he could tell what she was thinking compared to other women he'd met, how apparent it was that she did not desire his company, with the expression on her face, the way she sighed and looked away every time her eyes met his.

She landed into conversation with his father at the edge of the room and he thought he might have his chance at last. Mark drew closer to the pair and said, "Excuse me. May I speak with you privately for a moment?"

He should have been more specific. Bridget turned to look at up him with an obviously plastered-on smile and said, "By all means. I'll leave you to chat." She then rapidly departed.

When she was out of earshot, his father said, "Such a nice girl. Shame you didn't like her."

"I dare say she is the one who doesn't like me," he said, his tone slightly defensive, "with the way she keeps avoiding me."

"Mark," came his mother's voice from behind him, "with that comment of yours, you rather deserve it."

"Comment, Elaine?" asked Malcolm of his wife.

"I'll tell you later," she replied.

"I have been trying to apologise," Mark said in his own defense, glancing over to where Bridget was now standing, picking at the finger food.

Mark looked back to see his mother had seen him looking at Bridget, which put a weird light into her eyes, one that he was a little alarmed by. Elaine patted his arm. "I know. I saw. Well. Should continue mingling. Come on, Malcolm." She took her husband's arm and wandered away, directly towards where Pam and Una were convened.

By 'mingling', Mark reflected, what she really meant was further plotting to set their children up with one another. He watched Pam and Una flutter over to where Bridget was, where the hors d'oeuvres were laid out on the table, veritably descending up her to instruct her on her next mission:

Eagerly they picked up a tray of something from the sideboard, and subtly pointed to where Mark was standing. He wished he could go hide, but he really did want to offer that apology; she looked like she wished she could be anywhere else. To his surprise, though, she accepted the tray and ventured near to him.

"Look," she said in a low tone, her blue eyes pleading. "I know what Una and our mothers are trying to do, and I don't like it any more than you do. Just take a damn olive and maybe they'll leave us in peace."

He looked down, saw her tray contained stuffed olives on toothpicks. _Her mother has curious ideas about what's proper to serve at a party_, he thought, and he reached to pluck one from the tray.

As he opened his mouth to apologise, she muttered a quick thanks, then bolted away from him.

Still a little stunned at the brusque repudiation, he realised he was obviously wasting his time trying to make up with a woman who had no interest in him at all. He turned to find his mother approaching him. She did not look nearly as disappointed as he expected.

"It's too bad you're not heading back to London this evening, Mark," said Elaine with a grin. "You could offer to take Bridget back."

"I think it's pretty obvious I'm the last person she wants to spend an hour and a half in an enclosed space with," he replied gruffly. "Come on, let's get our coats and go home."

Elaine walked with him towards where the coats were, and though the day had not turned out at all like she'd planned, he noticed her smile still had not waned. It wasn't until they were buckling into the vehicle, until Mark was firing up the engine, that he asked, "What are you still looking so smug about, Mother?"

"Mark, my dear," she said. "I'm just pleased to see a girl really catching your interest at last."

He opted not to say anything; he was not about to confirm this to her, nor was he a good liar.

Still, he wondered exactly where "'round the corner" from him she lived.

_The end._


End file.
